


And So Lift Your Spirits

by OrchardsinSnow



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Self-Doubt, Sex Magic, Talking Animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-29 23:20:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18788320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrchardsinSnow/pseuds/OrchardsinSnow
Summary: There was something different about Quentin tonight. He was always responsive, often eager, but tonight he was . . . intent. On something. Eliot laid his long body back on the bed and let Quentin strip both of their clothes off. He could play this game. A truth he couldn’t bear to admit: anything Quentin wanted, Eliot wanted./Canon divergent in that a certain mirror realm mission involving bottled monsters went smoothly, without anything needing mending. This story takes place a few months down the road from that. Eliot makes a signature cocktail and tries not to wonder what’s keeping Quentin in the woods so late.





	And So Lift Your Spirits

**Author's Note:**

> I loved how Escape from the Happy Place revealed new nuances about Q and El so different from their usual roles—Quentin bold, Eliot fearful. I never wanted to see them bang more. Er, I mean, I wanted to explore that dynamic and Eliot’s “emotional machinery” if he and Quentin did give it a try. Melancholy at first but with a happy ending, I promise. 
> 
> Not my first fic but my first in this fandom (and on this platform) so let me know what you think! And thanks to all the inspiring writers here!

Eliot made out Fillory’s crescent-shaped moon in the deepening dusk, framed by the timber beams of the drawing room window. Quentin was late coming home again.

Eliot scowled. He was only irritated with himself, really. As long as Quentin wasn’t locked up in Castle Blackspire playing hide and seek with an ancient malevolent spirit for all of eternity, Eliot should be satisfied. As long as Quentin wasn’t dead at the hands of said malevolent spirit, which would have been Eliot’s own hands, mortifyingly, during that embarrassing possession interval. As long as Quentin was _somewhere_. That was all that mattered. The fact that Quentin was now sometimes in his arms, in his bed, was all . . . above and beyond. Frosting. Probably momentary. It wasn’t like Quentin had a curfew. Only—Eliot missed him. 

Eliot forced himself to focus on his cocktail project. He stood at the wet bar, trimming aromatic elderflower blooms from their unusable stems for a simple syrup infusion. Molten sugar boiled gently in a Pyrex cup above a floating flame he had conjured. The concoction he had in mind was something he imagined Quentin would like, but Eliot wasn’t above drinking alone, if it came to that. The elderflower syrup would keep, yes, but Fillorian cucumbers had a short growing season, and he was determined to enjoy them at their peak.

There was a part of Eliot that would always believe his time with Quentin was borrowed time. A certain thought had worn a groove in Eliot’s mind: that instead of heartfelt impulse on Quentin’s part, it had been a concession, some complicated calculus around long-term misery-to-contentment ratios that had led Quentin to say, that day in the throne room, awash in fifty years’ worth of emotions: _Why the fuck not_? Why not, indeed. Lots of reasons, Eliot thought.

But despite fearing Quentin’s heart might never be all in, Eliot couldn’t bring himself to forgo the pleasure. Not now. Not after coming so close to losing Quentin. Not when he’d witnessed—again and again—that maddeningly pure courageous streak of Quentin’s. Second chances like this were all too rare. And so he had, in the end, tried to be braver, and reopened the discussion around _Why the fuck not?_ And this time he’d managed: _Okay. Let’s see._

And when it was good it was good. Scratch that. It was never not good. It was, in fact, incandescent. For Eliot, anyways. Quentin’s soft mouth. His whimpers of surrender when Eliot tugged an earlobe with his teeth, or grazed his jawline. Quentin’s low groan when he felt Eliot’s cock seated deep inside, a breathy rumble Eliot sometimes felt resonate in the bones of his toes. The paring knife in Eliot’s hand suddenly felt slick with sweat. He let it clatter to the cutting board and wiped his palm on the barman’s apron slung around his hips.

That low, base, animal groan had to be real and true. Quentin wanted him. Quentin felt a measure of what he felt, he was sure of it. _If it isn’t real and true, let me never know_ , he thought. Just the memory of it would sustain him for years, if need be. But these long errands of Quentin’s into the woods of Fillory seemed increasingly frequent. What was he doing out there? And with whom?

He had no right to be jealous. It was what he wanted—for Quentin Coldwater, King of Bargaining and Self-Sacrifice, to be free. To follow his own heart for once. It was Eliot who had tried insisting on it, weeks ago. _You don’t owe me anything. You certainly don’t owe me this._ They’d been in bed at the time, tangled in sweaty sheets and swamped in déjà vu. _Fifty years._ The muscle memory of those fifty years was in his body somehow, and in Quentin’s too. A pleasant mindfuck, but a mindfuck nonetheless. Not real. Too easy to mistake for real.

And then there was the fact of Eliot’s body, which had been a monster’s body. Fortunately he had no recollection of those terrible months, but he knew Quentin must sometimes look at him and be caught off guard with memories of . . . blood. Chaotic, brutal violence. Sheer terror. Disgust.

Shouldn’t Quentin want some distance from that? Quentin had protested, tried to scoff at the suggestion, tried arguing earnestly: _I was only terrified he would hurt you_. In the end, he’d given Eliot a dark, serious look. And after that night, he’d been absent more. Not always. Not often. Just more.

#

Eliot had just finished straining the finished syrup into sterile jars when Quentin clattered through the drawing room doorway.

“El. Here you are. I thought you’d be in bed by now. Glad you’re not. Oh! It smells good in here.”

Eliot tossed off an enchantment to seal the jars, then rinsed his syrup-sticky hands in the bar sink. Quentin was out of breath, his hairline damp with sweat, cheeks bright. It made Eliot smile. Eliot had never hidden his pleasure from Quentin, and he didn’t hide it now, but he did keep his hands occupied muddling mint leaves with a mortar and pestle. He hoped it gave him an air of nonchalance.

“Well, you’re not too late for a nightcap. The first of the elderflowers bloomed today.”

_Not too late._ Quentin heard that. He cocked an eyebrow. “Ah. I’ve just—sorry, I lost track of time. I’ve been working on a new spell. Something really new. It might not work out. It probably won’t work out. But, you know, it might.” Quentin got briefly tangled in his own cardigan sleeve, having forgotten his messenger bag was still strapped across his chest.

Eliot reached out a hand to untwist Quentin’s sweater from the leather strap, frowning in mock disapproval. “Yeah, whatever it is, it might _not_ work out, if it’s any more complicated than this Fred Rogers-meets-Houdini routine.”

“Leave Mister Rogers out of this. He was a level infinity Hedge, practically. The Neighborhood of Make-Believe was a way to send coded threats to his enemies.” Finally free of his cardigan, Quentin sighed a relaxed sigh. Then he took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and said—nothing.

Fine. There was something on Quentin’s mind. Something he wasn’t saying. But he looked so darling, not saying it. Eliot bent to plant a kiss on his temple.

Quentin toed off his shoes. “A drink sounds good,” he mumbled.

#

One cocktail each. Juiced lime, muddled mint, elderflower syrup, gin. Shake vigorously. Add club soda and pour over ice chips into a chilled silver tumbler. Garnish with cucumber slices. Quentin sank into the tobacco leather easy chair across from Eliot and raised his cup for a toast: “And so lift your spirits.”

Eliot drank to that, cringing at the pun, feeling a twinge of wistfulness. He’d made that promise, that offer, so long ago. The Quentin he’d addressed it to had been . . . so different. A moderately captivating kitten of a first-year who’d been facing certain expulsion and a mind-wipe. _How about I find you, and I don’t say magic is real, but I do seduce you, and so lift your spirits that life retains its sparkle for decades._ A joke to lighten a sad moment. Seduction as consolation for losing magic. Charm because, well, charm. Those were all he had to offer, at the time: a laugh, and sex. Did he have more now?

“El-i-ot. Earth to Eliot. Or, like, Fillory to Eliot.”

Eliot looked up and blinked. He realized Quentin had been speaking to him, complimenting the drink. He composed his face. A smile.

Quentin swirled his glass, eyes glinting, then tossed back what was left. “It’s getting late, huh?”

_#_

From his perch on a pile of velvet floor cushions, Eliot watched Quentin collect the used barware into the sink. A lock of Quentin’s hair fell forward into his eyes, and he nudged it away with the back of his wrist. It was a gesture too much like wiping his brow, too much like a thing a nervous person did. Eliot decided, in a rush, that whatever Quentin wasn’t saying could wait until morning.

He was on his feet and across the room in three long strides. He circled his arms around Quentin’s waist. “Leave it for tomorrow,” he said, referring to the dishes, maybe. He breathed the words into Quentin’s hair.

Quentin turned, hands held aloft, framing his face. Another gesture that wasn’t right— _I give up. I confess._ But then he placed a fingertip to Eliot’s lips and Eliot tasted sugar syrup. Quentin’s hands were sticky with it. 

“Oh,” Eliot said. 

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Quentin said. “Stop frowning.”

He teased Eliot’s mouth open, taking charge, which was new. He thrust his fingers one by one into Eliot’s wet mouth, slowly, and Eliot took his time licking them clean, sucking them sloppily. Had they done this before? Had Q liked it? He seemed to like it now. His pretty bow-shaped mouth gaped open and he stared with that dark, sharp look. His fingers tasted like elderflower simple syrup and he smelled like pine sap. From the woods. Eliot closed his eyes.

One last thumb, and Quentin pulled it away, drawing Eliot back into the moment. “Nuh uh,” he said. “Stay with me.” He brushed Eliot’s lips with his thumbnail, sticky with a last bit of syrup, and rose up on his toes to kiss Eliot, slowly and then roughly. Eliot heard himself moan into it. And he felt the stutter in Quentin’s breath in response, felt the flush blooming hot across Quentin’s face. 

Quentin’s fingers, still wet from Eliot’s mouth, reached the back of Eliot’s neck and tangled in his curls. Eliot lost his balance then, and the two of them staggered until they were braced against the sideboard, Eliot pressing close, Quentin clutching him closer, those strong arms and legs full of purpose.

“Bed,” Quentin said, hoarse and throaty. “To bed.”

 #

 There was something different about Quentin tonight. He was always responsive, often eager, but tonight he was . . . intent. On something. Eliot laid his long body back on the bed and let Quentin strip both of their clothes off. He could play this game. A truth he couldn’t bear to admit: anything Quentin wanted, Eliot wanted.

At this moment, Quentin wanted to be on his knees between Eliot’s legs. Objectively speaking, Quentin wasn’t especially good at giving head, but he was enthusiastic. The fumbling strokes of his tongue struck a deep nerve in Eliot that made him harder than it should have. It summoned words like _first_ and _only_. He melted into the bed. The softness of Q’s hair against his inner thigh was a thing he would take to his grave _._

But he didn’t want Quentin so far away from him.

“Q.” His voice was sandpaper. He cleared his throat. “Don’t make me come like this. I want—to see your face.” He sat up, bracing Quentin by the shoulders and guiding him up to the bed, closer, until Quentin was straddling his lap. A trio of candles on the bedside table threw flickering light on the two of them. Quentin was pink in the face and glowing, an easy, excited smile on his chafed, bee-stung mouth.

Eliot felt his eyes well up, a swell of soft wonder that sometimes came during tiny, common moments like this. _Precious, precious Q._ _How can I deserve him?_

Eliot dove in to kiss Quentin, tasting himself, savoring knowing how extra-sensitive Q would be, rubbing the stubble of his jawline against Q’s lips, biting gently. God, mouths were brilliant.

Mouths weren’t usually this silent.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said, raking the hair back from Quentin’s brow.

“Mmm,” Quentin said. And—that was Quentin’s _I’m concentrating_ face. There for a split second, then gone. Like he was trying to remember, in the middle of sex, if he left the iron on. Eliot fluttered his eyes closed. He would have to fix that. He could fix that. 

He wove his hands into Quentin’s hair and tugged softly, tipping Quentin’s head back so he could press his mouth to the spot that pulsed alongside the tendons of his neck. This was a part of Quentin’s body he knew to be gentle with, more gentle every time. It made Quentin delirious. _No choking_ was basically Quentin’s only rule. _Nothing rough with the neck._ There had been an incident with the monster, Eliot understood. So he was only ever gentle.

He felt Quentin’s hand stroking up his chest and—the sweat was rolling off of both of them. He felt it now, trailing down his back, his ass crack, trickling along the line of his jaw. And Quentin’s hot palm was making it worse. Better. More. He rose up on his knees, drawing Quentin up with him, drawing him closer. Then he felt Quentin’s mouth following in the path of his hand, chasing beads of sweat across his Adam’s apple, lapping at the hollow of his sensitive throat. Mouths _were_ brilliant. But why was he so sweaty?

“Did you just sex magic me?”

Quentin smiled against his skin and made a small, embarrassed laugh. “I tried that autolube thing and I guess I transposed a coordinate and overdid it. This works, though. I like it.”

Quentin dragged his hand down Eliot’s abdomen, passing delicately over the still-pink scar they’d named _Sorrow’s End_. Quentin began stroking Eliot’s rigid cock, pressed between them and wet with both of their sweat now. Eliot cursed under his breath and groped for Quentin, mimicking the rhythm Quentin set.

“You _do_ like it,” he said _._ And then all he could think of was the slick place he needed test and tease open and work with one slow finger, with two fingers, slowly, slowly until—until—that moan. That sighing moan, the one he knew was a preamble to that other, deeper groan still to come. Eliot gulped back a gasp.

“Now,” Quentin said, with a shuddering breath, and pulled them both down to the bed. He was practically vibrating, a live wire.

When Quentin was like this, a slow grind was what Eliot wanted, all rolling hips and torturous long thrusts. The sensation of entering—Q quivering and jelly-limbed below him—was almost too much. Just an inch. _Steady. Steady._ He would finish fast if he wasn’t in control. So he was in control. He locked one elbow so he could pour his weight into that arm and have his other hand free for— _things._ Whatever might make it good. He slid his hand into the crease of Q’s knee, levering the back of his thigh, tilting, prying, finding the angle that— _oh. This._

“Is this good?” His whispered breath was jagged. “Yeah?” He knew it was, but he wanted to see Q nodding his head, almost frantic. Another visual for the vault. He eased himself forward, deeper now, careful. Quentin’s legs wrapped around his torso.

Quentin’s cock bobbed between them and Eliot moved to wrap his hand around it, but Quentin nudged him away. “ _Later,”_ Eliot heard him whisper. “ _Come closer_.”  

He lowered himself to a forearm. He was close enough to graze Quentin’s face with his lips, and he found himself drawn into a kiss that was surprisingly tender, all the while pressing deeper, impossibly hard. He felt _that_ groan at last, and groan after groan of Quentin’s, in his own rib cage. In his skull. _Jesus._ Not so careful now. Careful. Not so careful. His vision went black with every answering shudder and pull from below. He was the one doing the fucking, but Quentin was ringing him like a bell. His fingers were entwined with Quentin’s, their arms stretched out long together above Quentin’s head on the massive bed. He would come before Quentin, he realized. He felt so close, too close—and then he felt Q’s attention drift, saw his eyes dart away. That flash of distraction again.

“What just—should we stop?” Eliot forced the words out, just in case, but without stopping, not yet. He was panting. Maybe panting was a thing the monster did. “What just happened?”

“Don’t stop. Trust me,” Quentin rasped, rocking Eliot with his hips, rocking him close to the edge again. “Trust me. I know what you need. Let me—” He knew—what? He couldn’t know, but that was fine. Eliot hardly knew himself. _Stop overthinking._

But he couldn’t push the thought away. A vision of the future: Quentin distracted, doing his best, going through the motions. Quentin getting him off and rolling away, polite and obliging. It wasn’t like that now, but it would be, wouldn’t it? With a surge of shame Eliot understood that he was almost monstrous enough to accept that. No—he wouldn’t let Quentin live like that, not his brave, generous, loyal Quentin. But he would _want_ to. It felt too good. All he wanted was this feeling. This feeling was _home_ , he was getting closer and closer with every breath. All he wanted was this feeling and to believe, to believe, to _believe_.

If he couldn’t believe, he’d pretend. Just for another little while, he’d pretend.

He chanced another look at Q’s face and saw—his lips were moving.

He was _casting_. A _spell_.

“Fucking hell, Q, what are—” and then he gasped. A lightning bolt of white hot glowing pleasure flooded him, not driving through him and out like an orgasm but _in_ him. It pulsed in him and shone like a star made of honey. It ached and swelled with every new thrust, it shattered him with wanting and— _joy_. How was he inside his own heart, his own heart full of buried, pure, desperate love? Or _was_ it his?

He was brimming and bursting with this feeling and—a word emerged. The word felt like _Eliot_ , and it felt, it felt, it wasn’t spoken or heard but felt, like a meditation in his every cell. He was—he was _reading Q’s mind_. Not his mind, his _soul_. _Eliot Eliot Eliot Eliot Eliot Eliot_. His heart was beating out of his chest. His two hearts. Could that be? He managed to lock eyes with Quentin beneath him, and— _oh_.

“Holy fuck.” He came with a howl, violently, a shuddering mess. “Oh, sweet Christ, Quentin.” It went on and on, wave after wave. He collapsed finally, spent, trembling, vaguely aware of Q’s arms locking around him. _Shh,_ he heard, above the beating of blood in his ears. _Now you see._ _Now you see._ He released a single, unguarded sob, and then sighed. He did see. 

In that instant, he’d seen himself as Quentin saw him, and the person he saw was just . . . loved.

#

Later, much later, after the sweat had turned cool and he had wrapped them both in a thin patchwork blanket, Eliot kissed Quentin’s temple, the crinkly corner of his eye, his eyelid. He didn’t feel the impulse, this time, to spare Quentin the indignity of touching his sweaty, messy body, to pull away. Maybe he never would again.

“That was what you’d been working on? Mind projection?”

Quentin drew himself closer, stroked the side of Eliot’s face. “I didn’t mean to spring it on you, I just sort of saw the opportunity. And—if you were expecting it—what if it didn’t work? Disaster.”

He nodded. The ghost of a shudder passed through him, residual bliss finding its way through his every muscle. He raked his fingers through Quentin’s hair. “Hmm. True. Well, it did work.”

“I almost blew it,” Quentin said. “I should have realized it would be impossible to focus. When I practiced on the talking animals, I . . .”

Eliot laughed gently, and Quentin buried his face in Eliot’s shoulder.

“Not the—just the mind-projection part,” he said. “They weren’t fucking me. And they weren’t you.”

“Of course,” Eliot said. “I’m impressed you managed. I sometimes forget what a skilled magician you are.”

“I knew you would never take my word for it. You needed to feel it.”

Eliot nodded again. “Oh, me of little faith.”

“We’ll work on that,” Quentin said.

“We already are.” The feeling was still in him. He stroked the back of Quentin’s neck, smoothing the tight muscle there, using the strength of his hands now. He had plans for Quentin, who still hadn’t come, by the way. A few hours worth of plans. But first—

“Quentin Coldwater,” he said. “Thank you. And I—”

He shifted his body and held Quentin’s face a few inches away from his own, brushing the hair out of Quentin’s eyes, seeing the beauty there, seeing the light, letting himself see it, letting himself want it without reservation. “I love you, too.”


End file.
